The Cloths of Heaven
by Abi2
Summary: "John paused at the door to their flat. He could hear a low voice coming from behind the closed door and knew in an instant it was Sherlock." A Christmas-y short about Sherlock reading aloud, because Benedict has a voice to die for. Shameless use of (famous) poetry.


Good lord, I've written shmoop. Christmas schmoop at that. _Poetic_ too. Very hastily written and looked over, so if there's a few mistakes, I'm embarrassed but lacked the time to catch them. The two poems referenced here are Keats' 'Ode to a Nightingale' and Yeats' 'He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven'. If you've never hear Benedict Cumberbatch read 'Ode', for the love of all things go find it on youtube. Also, 'The Memoirs of Casanova' is particularly amazing, if you have 5 hours to listen. Mmmm.

* * *

John, back from a shift at the clinic, paused at the door to their flat. He could hear a low voice coming from behind the closed door and knew in an instant it was Sherlock. John pressed an ear against the wood trying to hear the words.

"You could come in you know."

John blushed and opened the door. Sherlock stood by the window, a book lay open in his hands.

"What were you reading?"

"Keats, actually."

"Never took you for the poetic type."

"Things change."

Sherlock waved a the hand with the book towards the sitting room with a look somewhere between harried and bemused. John sat in his chair, wondering what Sherlock was up to. The taller man turned towards the window, clearing his throat before he began to recite a poem. He didn't look to the book, and John sighed. Of course he would have memorized the contents.

_"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains _

_ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk…" _

John was entranced as Sherlock read. The man had perfect timing and a voice John could, and did on many occasions, listen to for hours on end. He always loved to listen, but Sherlock's usual tone was more manic than this, rushed, barbed. This, however… This was Sherlock peaceful, slow. His voice mellifluous, rumbling low in mournful beauty. Sherlock, his back to John, swayed on his feet just a bit, as he did when he played the violin. The depth of feeling imbued in each word left John breathless and dizzy in the chair.

_"Was it a vision, or a waking dream?_

_Fled is that music—Do I wake or sleep?"_

The book closed and the room was silent but for the sound of traffic below. John let out a shaky breath and Sherlock turned his head to look, eyes sad though the ghost of a smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

"That… That was…"

It must have been written on his face, the adoration, the deep, unabated fire held even across three years of mourning. Sherlock let out a breath, smiling a secret smile, one only for John.

At Christmas John found a box underneath their small tree. It fit in his hand, wrapped in dark blue paper.

"Open it."

Sherlock, coming through the door with two steaming mugs of what smelled like Mrs. Hudson's mulled wine, nodded to the present.

"Go on."

"It's not quite Christmas though."

"John."

He gave in at the sight of the raised eyebrow, waiting until Sherlock had stretched himself across the couch, head on the armrest still watching, quiet and, it seemed to John, almost hesitant. Pulling off the lid, he found a memory stick wrapped in a note. Sherlock's scrawl covered the scrap of paper (torn from a police form, the prat). He read the words, not sure if they meant what he hoped they did.

"What's on it?" John asked, voice soft.

"I made some recordings for you." Just as soft, as if unsure of the reception.

"And the lines here?"

Sherlock stood, made his slow way to stand in front of the shorter man. John kept his eyes on the note in his hands.

"Yeats. 'I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.'"

They stood, listening to the crackle of the fire in the grate, the strains of music from Mrs Hudson's flat below. John looked up, at last, into Sherlock's waiting gaze.

"Thank you."

He saw Sherlock's shoulders slump a fraction, a shaky sigh released as he looked away.

"Of course, John."

He put a hand to Sherlock's chin, steering his gaze back to John's. The confusion in Sherlock's eyes was worth it, John thought, smiling. His thumb swept up, a bare brush over the skin of Sherlock's cheek.

"And yes. Of course I'll tread softly."

He watched as a fragile hope flitted across Sherlock's face.

"They're our dreams, after all."


End file.
